


to leave and be left behind

by survivalinstinctvalkyria



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/survivalinstinctvalkyria/pseuds/survivalinstinctvalkyria
Summary: —or not, as Wataru proves is an option.//Gift fic for @/tarotboys on Twitter, with the prompt: "Keito/Wataru; any hurt/comfort"
Relationships: Hasumi Keito/Hibiki Wataru
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	to leave and be left behind

**Author's Note:**

> Wataru's crackhead energy scares me so I had to make him sad :(

This room has always been cold. In his memory, it’s always marked with a quivering sense of anxiety and frail hands that felt like icicles against his skin. The monotonous drone of beeping and the steps of frantic doctors in the background left little room for comfort; he’s always hated this room.

He hates it even more now, with its dreadful silence and the feeling of numbness that it drills into his chest, in the hole left behind by a fear that has been realized. With no freezing hands to hold, he finds the room oddly tepid.

Back when his visits were recurring, Keito would curse this room, how it held its occupant trapped and pulled Keito back into its confines time and again. He wants to burn it now, because the fact that he’ll never return makes it even worse.

The door opens with a protesting whine that makes Keito flinch, but not enough to tear his eyes away from the empty bed. The tentative steps that follow those of a visitor — the doctors always walk with conviction. This new guest lingers by the door, and Keito listens as his hair brushes against the walls and door, unsure of if the broken silence is welcome. When he hears the door creak open yet again, he speaks up.

“Hibiki,” he says, partly in greeting and partly as a reprimand. He’s surprised to hear how shaky his voice is. Wataru pulls the door closed again, but doesn’t take his hand off the knob.

“I—” he starts, cringing at the sound of his own voice. In the silence, his hushed voice seems like a bomb.

Any other time, Keito would send him away without a second thought, but now he’s not so sure. Maybe a distraction would help quell the numbness pervading his body. Finally, he tears his eyes away from the bed, to look Wataru in the eye. “You came all this way.”

He says nothing more than that, but his message is clear: If you leave now, you’ll have wasted all the time and effort it took you to get here. Eichi hated wasting time and effort

Wataru inhales deeply, and what would normally take two strides for him takes nearly five. There’s something heavy about the presence of another person that makes the rest of the room feel lighter. Keito takes a breath of air, grateful.

They sit there in silence, staring at the perfectly made bed in the center of the room. Look, it taunts, there’s space here, space where Eichi could fit. He’s hiding under the covers, don’t you want to take a look?

He clenches his hand and glares, not feeling the way that his body shakes until Wataru turns to look at him.

“Kei—”

“I miss him,” he bursts, hating himself for it. Missing Eichi won’t bring him back. He’d missed Eichi before, back when he was still alive and just one short trip to the hospital would let them see each other. He’ll miss Eichi for the rest of his life, but no matter how many times he comes back to this room, he won’t see Eichi. He’ll never see him again. 

Wataru pats his shoulder and whispers, “I miss him too.” There’s a comfort in knowing that Wataru feels the same, that he’s not the only one still holding on to a fleeting memory.

Keito’s throat feels heavy. “Eichi would’ve been so happy to hear that,” he says with great effort. “He was always selfish like that.”

“I could say the same to you, dear right-hand man.” There’s a deep affection in his voice that implies so much more. All at once, it’s I’m glad we could share his love when he was still alive and perhaps we shouldn’t have fought so much when he was around and we truly are lucky, aren’t we?

Keito nods. He wonders what Eichi would say if he saw them like this, red-eyed and quiet. There’s a sharpness to his conclusion that he will never find out. Turning the side, he watches as Wataru bites his lip and narrows his eyes.

“You’re allowed to cry.”

Wataru startles, eyes wide and brimming with tears. He performs some type of sleight of hand that wipes his eyes, and attempts a laugh, bitter and full of remorse. “Surely not. How can I… do my duty without a smile?”

“You have no duty, idiot.”

Wataru huffs another laugh, but it’s caught in a violent wheeze that shakes his entire body. Keito isn’t quite sure what happens between that and the sensation of Wataru’s body flush against his, face buried in his shoulder.

“I told myself I wouldn’t cry,” Wataru mumbles against his neck. The sensation of tears on his skin is startling; Keito wraps his arms around the other man before he can think.

“I didn’t want to either.” His head drops against Wataru’s, the silvery strands of hair clinging to the dampness of his cheeks. Any other time, it would feel uncomfortable, but now it feels just right. “I always wanted to be strong in front of him.”

“You were,” Wataru assures him. His grip tightens as Keito shakes in his arms. “You still are.”

If he tries to say anything more, Keito has no idea. Instead, his voice cracks over a sob — pained, as if belonging to a wounded animal. Then again, and again. He isn’t sure how much time passes like this, with him holding Wataru’s shaking body in his arms, combing his fingers through the long strands of his hair.

“I want to cut it.”

“Why?”

“I want to start over, maybe take better care of it.”

You already take perfect care of your hair, Keito wants to gripe. Instead he just runs his fingers through a lock of hair, feeling how they glide through unobstructed. Were they still in high school, he’d be rejoicing; high school Keito had tried to cut Wataru’s hair so many times. With age, though, he’d grown an appreciation for it, for the dedication it must’ve taken to commit to that kind of style. 

“Are you sure?” he asks in spite of himself.

“I’m not quite sure of anything.”

And Keito’s nods solemnly, reluctantly releasing his hold to let Wataru pull away. Unbidden, he finds himself missing the other man’s warmth. That warmth is replaced, though, when Wataru entwines their fingers. “Stay with me, Keito.”

Keito lets himself get pulled out of the chair, dragging his feet towards the door. Before he steps past the doorway, he turns back, gazing upon the familiar hospital room for the final time. The weight of his loss still hasn’t sunken in completely — it probably never will. Keito wonders if the urge to return to this room time and again will ever fade; he doubts it will.

He feels a warm finger brush under his eye, and turns to meet Wataru’s wistful smile. Shakily, he smiles back.

“Okay, Wataru.”

—

The scissors feel oddly heavy when he holds them in his hand. Wataru sits before him, his bare shoulders covered by a cloth. As if sensing, Keito’s uncertainty, Wataru shakes his head, letting his long locks sway around him.

“Feeling nervous?” His laugh is full of wonderful, genuine mirth. “Don’t worry! Even if you stab me, I will not die! Though I suppose the blood would be difficult to clean up, and the—”

“Shut up,” Keito hisses. “And you’re always making messes for me to clean up, so I don’t want to hear it from you.”

“Then why the hesitation? Could it be… that you like my hair!?” As if they have lives of their own, the strands of his dance around, hitting Keito’s cheeks. “Oh! Are you embarrassed, my dear Keito?”

This time Keito just pulls his hair, hard.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“No, no! I think it’s wonderful!” A pause and then, “But I still want to cut my hair.”

Keito brings the hair he’s holding to his lips, and kisses it. In the mirror, he watches Wataru’s lips part in surprise. “I know.”

Wataru goes still for what must be the first time in his life when Keito brings the scissors to the base of his neck. His goodbye are silently as he combs his fingers through Wataru’s hair for the final time, before lining his fingers up at his nape and cutting the strands held between them. He moves through Wataru’s hair slowly, watching the hair flutter down like leaves and pile on the ground. When he’s done, he steps back, and lets Wataru inspect his work. His scrutinizing gaze turns into a smile as he brushes his bangs to the side.

The difference is almost startling. He’s still Wataru, undoubtedly, but the absence of his hair makes him look… younger, fresh. Eichi would probably tell him that he did a good job, if he was still here.

After a minute of letting Keito stare at him, Wataru curls his lips into a smirk. “Like what you see?”

“S—Shut up,” Keito nearly chokes over his stuttering. “I did a good job.”

Wataru laughs brightly, and Keito is reminded of why he loves him. He’s so bright, it nearly blinds him. The following silence is warm and reminiscent.

“Hey, Keito.”

“Yeah?”

Wataru reaches back to entwine their fingers, a grounding gesture that is nothing if not solid. It’s Wataru comforting him; it’s Wataru entrusting the little bit of vulnerability that he has to him; it’s Wataru making a promise to him — a promise that Keito returns when he squeezes their hands together:

“Thank you for staying with me.”


End file.
